Christina Dodd - In Bed with the Duke

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing my first historical in four years was a labor of love, and my pleasure was intensified by the enthusiastic support of the NAL team. Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, and Claire Zion, as always I appreciate you. A special thank-you and welcome to Jesse Feldman, who keeps the office running. This spectacular cover was the concept and work of NALs brilliant art department led by Anthony Ramondo. Thank you! My appreciation to the publicity department with my special people, Craig Burke and Jodi Rosoff. My thanks to the production department, and of course, a special thank-you to the spectacular Penguin sales department. Finally, my heartfelt appreciation to my editor, Kara Cesare, who contributes so much to my work with her discerning eye and tactful suggestions.

Most especially, thank you to all the readers who, like me, love a rollicking historical romance. Heres to you!

Chapter One

Moricadia, 1849

The four-piece ensemble ceased playing, and with exquisite timing, Comte Cloutier delivered the line sure to command the attention of all the guests within earshot. Have you heard, Lady Lettice, of the ghost who rides in the night?

Certainly he commanded the attention of the Englishman Michael Durant, heir apparent to the Duke of Nevitt. There had been little to interest him at Lord and Lady Thibaults exclusive ball. It was an exact clone of every English ball he had ever attended, and indeed of every Prussian ball, every French ball, every Venetian ball.... He had made the Grand Tour, and discovered that the wealthy imitated one another to the point of boredom.

Now, tonight, the musicians played, the guests danced, the food was fashionable, and the gambling room was full. Prince Sandre and his henchmen circulated, lending the patina of royalty to the gathering.

But of useful reports, there had been nothing... until now. And now, Michael knew, only because Cloutier failed to comprehend the seriousness of his faux pas. He failed to realize that by tomorrow he would be gone, thrown out of Moricadia and traveling back to France while cursing his own penchant for gossip.

With every evidence of interest, Michael strolled closer, to stand near the group of suitors surrounding Lady Lettice Surtees.

A ghost? Lady Lettice gave a tiny, high-pitched scream worthy of a young girls alarm. No! Pray tell, what does this ghost do? Before Cloutier could answer she swung around to her paid companion, a girl of perhaps twenty, and snapped, Make yourself useful, girl! Fan me! Dancing with so many admirers is quite fatiguing.

The girla poor, downtrodden wisp of a thing with a lace cap set over dull brown hairnodded mutely. From the large reticule she wore attached to her waist, she withdrew an ivory-and-lace fan, took her place at Lady Lettices right shoulder, and fanned her abruptly flushed and sweating mistress.

Lady Lettice complained, Its too warm in here. Dont you agree its warm in here, Lord Escobar?

Escobar hovered at her left elbow. Indeed, you are right, seorita, an unseasonably warm summer evening.

It was a gross flattery to call Lady Lettice seoritashe was a widow, in her early forties, with the beginnings of the jowls that would plague her old age. But her bosoms were impressive and displayed to advantage by her immodestly low-cut, ruffled bodice, and her waist was made tiny by her stays, which had been tightened enough to impede her breathing and make the dancing, as she said, fatiguing.

None of that really mattered, because Lady Lettice was wealthy, and the half dozen men around her knew it. They jockeyed for position beside her gilded chair, offering cool goblets of champagne, smiling toothily, and, behind her back, examining the debutantes lined up along the wall, girls who were prettier and far younger, but without the necessary riches to make a good match.

So, Cloutier, tell me about this ghost. Lady Lettice withdrew a white cotton handkerchief from between her breasts and blotted her damp upper lip.

This ghosthe is called the Reaper. He rides at night, in utter silence, a massive white figure in fluttering rags atop a giant white horse. His skin is death, his clothes are rags, and where his eyes should be, there are only black holes. A terrifying apparition, yet the peasants whisper of him fondly, claiming he is the specter of Reynaldo, dead two hundred years and the last king of Moricadian blood.

Peasants, Lady Lettice said contemptuously. Peasants know nothing.

I would not argue with you there, Cloutier agreed. But not only peasants have seen this ghost. Others who have come to this fair city to take the waters and enjoy the gaming tables have seen him, too. The rumor claims that if youre not Moricadian, and if you are unlucky enough to see the Reaper, you should flee at once, for this fearsome phantomCloutier lowered his voice in pitch and volumeis a sign of impending doom.

Michael snorted, the sound breaking the shocked silence.

At once, Lady Lettice fixed him with her gaze. Youre impertinent. Do you know who this man is? She gestured to Cloutier.

Her paid companion might be a mouse, but she was an intelligent, observant mouse, for she squeaked a small warning and flapped the fan harder.

Lady Lettice paid no heed. He is Comte Cloutier, of one of the finest noble families in France. One does not snort when he speaks.

One does if one is Michael Durant, the heir to the Nevitt dukedom. Cloutier bowed to Michael.

Oh. Lady Lettice didnt bother to be embarrassed by her discourtesy. She was too enthralled by her newest prospect of a suitor. My lord. Your grace. She fumbled, not knowing quite what to call him.

Cloutier met Michaels gaze and, knowing Lady Lettice aimed too high, did the honors. Lady Lettice Surtees, this is Lord

Please. Michael held up a hand. In England, my name is old and honored. In Moricadia, I am nothing but a political prisoner, a nonentity, a man who has vanished from the world I knew due to the oppression of the ruling family and Prince Sandre. Call me Durant. It is the only decent title for a disgrace such as me... and I confess, I should be ashamed to use my family name so shabbily. His voice was a low rasp.

Lady Lettice looked appalled. A political prisoner? I am shocked, gentlemen. Shocked! How is this possible?

The only ghost in Moricadia is me, my lady, for until I was allowed out for this one night, my existence has been no more than a rumor. Michael bowed and walked away, projecting tragedy with a surety that would have commanded the admiration of the stage actor Edmund Kean.

The poor man. Lady Lettice spoke in a whisper so high as to pierce the ears. What did he do?

Michael paused behind a marble pillar to hear the answer.

No one replied at first; then Escobar reluctantly said, Durant fell foul of the de Guignards. They own this country. They rule this country. The first de Guignards deposed King Reynaldomurdered himand now the de Guignards crush the native Moricadians beneath their jeweled heels. He lowered his voice even more. There are rumors of rebellion and that the true king is returning to claim his throne.

How romantic! Lady Lettice clutched her hands at her bosom.

Yes, except that the de Guignards accused Durant of assisting the rebels, and for these two years, it has been generally believed he was dead. Only recently has it come to light that Lord and Lady Fanchere, trusted allies of Prince Sandre, are holding him under house arrest. In a mere whisper, Escobar added, It is rumored he spent most of that two years in the medieval dungeon below the royal palace.

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